


The Jedi, the Sith, and the Shortbread

by oldmountainsoul, pomegrenadier



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Aromantic Characters, Asexual Characters, Baking, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Snowed In, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cross-faction friendship, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6819718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmountainsoul/pseuds/oldmountainsoul, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retired Jedi Master and the Emperor's Wrath find themselves snowed in together for an evening. The solution? To bake cookies together, of course. Utterly self-indulgent fluff of the highest degree. Adapted from an RP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jedi, the Sith, and the Shortbread

Kerena stiffens, quirking her head to the side as she feels a presence approaching—not one of the villagers she’s been assisting, but . . . No. Definitely a Force user, not hiding their presence or attempting conceal themselves, simply. . . passing through? Reaching out into the Force, feeling for something as she is. She flinches when she reaches back, the presence seeming to burn brighter at her light touch, surging up and then closing in on itself—whoever it is, they sense her, too. She runs out of the house, grabbing her lightsaber but forgoing her coat and gloves—the Force will protect her against the cold, but for now she has to make sure the traveler does no harm.

Evren's desultory search for Lord Veraxos comes to a screeching halt. He snaps up his shields, draws a lightsaber but leaves it unlit, scans his surroundings for—oh. Oh, no. A cool bright breeze, soft and gentle—for now. Jedi. Of course.

He sets his jaw, turns towards the approaching Jedi, free hand half-raised. Hopefully they'll read it as a gesture of peace, not preparation to shoot lightning or something equally obnoxious.

"What brings you here?" Kerena asks brightly, returning the gesture, though she keeps her grip on her own saber hilt. Sith, judging from the tattoos, but not shouting at her or leaping for her throat. Always a good sign.

Oh. That's . . . less hostile than he expected. "I mean you no harm," he says. "We have no quarrel, Jedi."

Kerena smiles, shoulders sagging in relief. "I appreciate that you're willing to reach a diplomatic solution. Not many of your people are—and not many of mine either, honestly." As she searches for what to say next, the weather siren blares, jarring her out of her thoughts. "Damn, that's a blizzard warning—we need to get inside, friend."

"Delightful," Evren mutters. Deserts, jungles, miserable swampy hellholes, ice fields—the weather hates him wherever he goes. It's mutual. He relaxes his stance, slowly returning his lightsaber to his belt, and says, "I'll be off, then." Hopefully someone here will be willing to shelter a Sith for the duration of the storm.

"Wait!" Kerena calls out, reaching out to grab his arm as he turns around, but stops herself. Best not to possibly restrain the Sith Lord—truces are a fragile thing, best not to push her luck. "Here, come with me, it really isn't safe for you to travel right now. You're more than welcome to wait out the storm at my house," she offers, nodding back over her shoulder. "It's just down this path."

He gapes at her. An . . . invitation to wait out the storm. From a Jedi. Who has a house here. Individually the concepts are completely logical, but put together it's . . . _what_? "You're not serious," he says.

"What can I say? You have an honest face." She smiles. "Really. I mean it, the storm'll be upon us within the hour if the siren is sounding. You've made it clear that you're not my enemy, and I can't just leave someone out during a blizzard. I'm offering you my trust. Will you trust me?"

". . . Very well," he says faintly. He coughs. "Thank you. It's . . . very kind of you."

"It's always my intention to be." Kerena briskly leads him down the path. Looking back to see if the Sith follows, she tries to make what conversation she can. "I'm Kerena Denarr, Barsen'thor. Er . . . Former Warden of the Order. I understand if you can't give me your real name, but is there something I can call you?"

"No, it's fine—my name is Evren Straik. It's a pleasure to meet you." He shadows her, debating whether or not to mention his own title and deciding against it. Why invite unnecessary trouble? And it's not relevant anyway. "How did you come to acquire a house here, of all places?" he asks.

"Most of the homes here were abandoned when the geothermal plant here stopped working. I brought the new power converters, and I'm assisting a work crew with making sure the installation goes smoothly," Kerena explains. "With war spreading to all corners of the galaxy, more and more people are being displaced and in need of homes. So I'm helping to make this place habitable. Thankfully, it's not another Taris." She shudders. "Better blizzards than rakghouls any day."

"Oh stars, yes," Evren says fervently. Then he catches himself—the Imperial victory on Taris is hardly a safe topic. Backtrack, then. "But, ah, it's—it's good that someone is looking out for those affected by the fighting. Too often they're forgotten in favor of pursuing the next battle."

. . . Which invites a whole host of politically charged avenues of conversation, including Taris, so really he should just shut up and contemplate the first flurries of snow rather than trip over his own tongue again.

"That certainly seems to be the case, unfortunately. Oh! We're here, come inside.” Kerena gestures Evren in, following behind him. "Your accent—you're from Dromund Kaas, aren't you? I hope the cold hasn't been too hard on you," Kerena says, reaching for a couple of mugs. The house is sparsely furnished, not much besides the bare essentials—she counts herself lucky there’s more than one mug in the cupboard. "Hoth chocolate, Evren?"

"What—erm. Yes, please," he manages. "And the cold is . . . refreshing."

Kerena sets some nerf milk to boil on the stove and takes a seat on the couch, the sole seating in the room besides the bed. "It'll be just a moment on the chocolate—old generator, takes a while to get the power going on the stove. Please, take a seat. Or remain standing, whichever you prefer," Kerena hums. "You seem nervous—and understandably so, I'm not sure how I'd act if a Sith invited me in. Well, I'm sure Darth Kar—I mean, my friend—you remind me of them. You seem like a decent person, and I assure you, I really do mean you no harm."

". . . Thanks," he says, voice a little strangled. "I—I appreciate—thank you." He edges towards a chair and perches on the very edge of it, the most pitiful compromise between wariness and politeness imaginable. Darth. She has a Sith friend, then? That's—unexpected. Heartening, though. And it's not the kind of thing Jedi tend to lie about, so . . .

He's being ridiculous. "So, ah, how goes the geothermal plant project?"

"Quite well, actually! They're hoping to have it up and running again in the next month or so. I've excavated most of the area already, all that remains is the technical work. I'm just here as the only medical staff they have on hand in case something goes wrong. Then this home and the rest of the village will be open for refugees to come in and start a new life," she says. The kettle on stove whistles. "Oh! Lovely!" she exclaims, nonchalantly waving her hand, curling her fingers and drawing back, gently levitating the pot, mugs, and the cocoa tin from the kitchenette.

Evren watches the cocoa supplies float serenely across the room, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. "I knew I wasn't the only one to do that," he says. "Though with tea, mostly . . ."

Kerena beams, a chuckle bubbling up in her throat as well. "What's the point of phenomenal cosmic powers if you can't use them for the most important things in life, like hot cocoa?"

"Do you want any help with this?" Evren offers, instinct screaming to stand up and start mixing ingredients.

"Sure! Here, put as many scoops as you'd like in your mug. I also have some cinnamon or cayenne—somewhere, I'm not sure where—if you'd like to experiment with it a bit." Kerena smiles, passing him the tin and a mug of steaming milk. She pauses, cocking her head to the side, considering for a moment. "Hmm, you know, this cocoa could really use some Alderaanian Shortbread to go with it . . ."

"That sounds wonderful," Evren says with a grin. He scoops the chocolate powder into the mug, stirs quickly enough to create a bit of foam, and stands up, smooth and careful to prevent spills. "I can start setting up for the shortbread, if you'd like."

"You bake, too? I knew there was a reason I liked you!" Kerena teases, stealing another sip from her mug before setting it down. "Here, let's make it together—one stipulation, though . . .” she says, eyes sparkling with mischief.

". . . I hope you're not about to suggest what I think you're about to suggest."

"Oh, I do believe we're thinking the same thing," Kerena giggles as she begins to float ingredients out of the cupboard.  
  
“We have to make it without using our hands,” Kerena says gleefully.  
  
Evren rakes a hand through his hair and exhales. Hells. There are so very many ways this could go wrong; there’s a reason he saves telekinetic foolery for covered kettles and dry ingredients. And, well, killing people. "Your funeral, Jedi.” He winces. “Or, er, the shortbread's, at any rate."

"It's almost impossible to ruin shortbread, we'll be fine," Kerena assures him. It occurs to her suddenly that she's never seen a Sith use fine-tuned telekinesis. "If it makes you uncomfortable, we don't have to. Working the dough with your hands is quite therapeutic, after all . . ." she adds softly.

She seemed so excited when she made the suggestion. He can't just—squash that. And anyway, all else being equal he'd very much rather not remove his gloves if he can help it. "I'll take my chances," he says, cracking a smile. "So. Your kitchen, your rules. What can I do to help?"

"Could you grab the sugar? It’s just in there, on the bottom left," Kerena nods in the direction of the pantry, never taking her eyes off the measuring cup she's levitating down into the bag of flour.

“Precision is not exactly my area of expertise," he says sheepishly. "Apologies in advance . . ." He reaches out with the Force and pries the lid off the sugar container, then lets it drop.

"It's not as difficult as it seems, but . . . I might be biased since I've had so much practice. I can't do all the things I used to be able to, with the Force at least, not on such a grand scale. But precise? I can be precise," Kerena says as she guides teaspoons of salt and baking powder into one of the bowls. “See? You’re already getting the hang of it!”

Evren watches the ingredients glide around at her command. Right. Getting the hang of it. “How much?”

“Just a half cup measure, please.”

He hunts around for the right measuring cup—he scowls at it, tries to scoop up some sugar without flinging cup or container across the kitchen. A fine spray of sugar crystals arcs through the air. Evren winces. "Sorry."

Kerena giggles. "Don't worry, it's alright. No trouble at all." She waves her hand, sweeping the scattered sugar into a pile with a whoosh of Force. "It just takes practice, focus, and calm. It'll only be as steady as you are."

Evren echoes her laugh. "Right. I'll just . . ." Exhale. Take the squirming embarrassment and let it fall away. He gestures again, slower, and this time manages to set a near-full measuring cup down on the counter without any further mishaps. Another breath—lift again, and tilt into the mixing bowl. The cup wobbles but only spills a little.

"There we go. What next, master chef?" he says.

Kerena practically cheers. "Fantastic! You'll be an expert in no time."  She pauses, face falling. Then she smacks herself in the forehead. "Oh, damn, I needed to soften the butter before any of this—" She whirls, almost clipping Evren's shoulder as she rushes past, opening the refrigeration unit with a distracted wave and floating out a stick of nerf butter.

The butter soars across the kitchen, arcing straight for his head. He catches it reflexively and bites back a yelp. “Sorry. Er, in my defense, I’ve never been targeted by weaponized butter before.”

Kerena winces. “Oh, stars, I’m sorry—no it’s fine, really, actually, we’d need to hold it anyway. There’s a trick to softening it faster. Ever had to keep yourself warm with just the Force? Like that, but it’s smaller, gentler," she says, almost placing her hands on top of his.

"And external rather than internal," Evren says. He takes hold of the butter in the Force, careful where their mental reach brushes—he still receives a distinct impression of a soft breeze, bright sweet spring with the faintest echo of storms yet to break, before it's gone.

He can't channel lightning from his fingertips, but he can regulate his own body heat to some extent. Using the same general ability on something else . . . It takes him a few minutes of glaring at the butter and running through three different focusing exercises, but he thinks he's gotten the molecules to speed up a bit. Maybe. He hopes. “Is this sufficient?”

Kerena pokes the butter—it has a fair amount of give, leaving the indentation of her fingers when she pulls back. "Perfect! See, you're already mastering this, Evren! Now the fun part—should we blend the butter and sugar with a mixer, or attempt to pulverize it through sheer Force of will?" she asks, her voice dropping comically low in a play serious tone on the last phrase.

". . . On the one hand, pulverization by Force assault could get exciting. On the other, mixing high-speed, high-powered appliances with shaky telekinesis might be a somewhat, ah, inadvisable course of action." Evren eyes the butter and shrugs. "Your kitchen, your call."

". . . Well, at least it's not a glass bowl. Plasti's a bit less likely to shatter. Still, 'exciting' sounds like a better option than 'inadvisable.'" Kerena grins. "Watch this.”

Closing her eyes, she carefully reaches out with the Force, dropping the butter in the bowl with the sugar. Her brow furrows in concentration as she feels out every individual granule of sugar, carefully lifting them into the air around the butter. They hover there for just moment before slowly beginning to spin, picking up speed as they go, tearing through the helpless and weakened dairy product.

Evren gapes a bit. Throwing rocks around, fine. Direct Force attacks, easy. But this kind of pinpoint control, over thousands of tiny objects simultaneously . . . He is suddenly very thankful indeed that he and Kerena are not currently engaged in a duel to the death. "That's amazing," he says. "You're amazing—I've never seen the Force used like that."

Kerena blinks, pulling back and letting the thoroughly creamed concoction settle in the bowl. "Thank you, I had a good teacher. I spent nearly a year perfecting tricks like that while recovering from an illness. I may not be able to rip out bunker doors with my mind anymore—" Kerena smiles wryly— "Well, not as often. But control, _that_ I can do. Precision seems to have become my niche. You're quite skilled too, you know. I don't think I've ever seen anymore master the basics of fine telekinesis so quickly before."

"Learn fast or die faster," Evren says cheerily. Bunker doors. _Hells._ He's standing in a kitchen making Alderaanian shortbread with a one-woman army. "Anything else I can do?"

"Well, there's no risk of death in this kitchen. All that's left is to mix the dry and wet ingredients, then we can start rolling and cutting it out and be that much closer to sweet, sweet victory."

He can’t resist. “Through victory, our pangs are broken?”

“Like hunger pangs?” she laughs. “Something like that.”

“Yes, yes, it’s terrible. I never claimed to be a master of puns.” Evren hovers a moment, then twitches open a drawer with the Force and pulls out a wooden spoon. It's shaking in midair already—he can't do this much longer, not without defaulting to more familiar techniques better suited to hurling lightsabers and bodies across battlefields than floating cookware across kitchens. "You pour, I'll mix?" he says, keeping his voice light despite the strain. He does not want to slip up while handling a bowl full of sugary goop.

"Sounds good!" Kerena gently levitates the dry ingredients and pours them into the sugar mixture. She tenses up, feeling the prickling sensation of uncertainty—ah, not hers.

"This is going remarkably well, but maybe we should get back to doing this the old fashioned way before we get knives and ovens involved," she jokes, casually taking her bowl in hand, giving Evren an out. She’s tiring, too. She never knows how much energy she has at her disposal, how many of her midichlorians were tied up fighting the battle of keeping nearly a dozen people alive and sane. Even after all this time, she’s still a liability.

Evren starts levering the spoon around the combined mixture. It's frustratingly clumsy, and the still-dry flour puffs up in sullen white clouds with every awkward motion. But at least it's working, more or less. "Call it successful proof of concept—no need to risk life or limb to demonstrate its feasibility, eh?"

"Exactly," Kerena agrees, eyes glimmering in amusement. As Evren continues to wrangle the ingredients into something resembling dough, Kerena grabs a fistful of flour, spreading it on the table in preparation for rolling out the shortbreads. Reaching down to the drawers, she pulls out a rolling pin and a small knife, setting them down by the bowl. "Ready to divide and conquer? Cookie-r?"

Evren stops dragging the spoon through the increasingly gloppy mess and arches an eyebrow at her. “Something like that,” he echoes. Then he affects the snobbiest Imperial drawl he can muster, and gives a flourishy bow. "On your order, Master Jedi.”

Kerena laughs, a full bodied, gleeful thing, almost doubling over, taking several seconds before she can compose herself again. She clears her throat, preparing the shrillest, most ridiculous Imperial grandmotherly voice she can, "That will do very nicely, my lord." She immediately breaks off into giggles, ruining the impression. "Really though, this part's best to do by hand anyways. There's just something about burying your hands in dough and making it into something."

“There is." He eyes the spoon dubiously, then shrugs and takes hold of it for the last few mixes, scraping the sides of the bowl to ensure all the stray flour and sugar is thoroughly incorporated into the mixture. Then he scoots the bowl sideways towards Kerena. "Should probably wash up . . ." And that's—it's fine. He’s fine. He turns to the sink, unfastens his gauntlets and vambraces, and scrubs his hands clean. "Shall we?"

Kerena follows suit, washing her hands while Evren dries his on the kitchen towel. Stepping back to the table, she grabs the bowl and unceremoniously dumps the dough onto the floured table. Putting on her most serious voice, she turns to Evren. "Let's do this."

They tear the dough in half and start rolling it out on the flour-dusted countertop. It's cool and a bit gritty, and it threatens to stick to Evren's palms until he dusts himself to prevent it. Within minutes they have a more or less evenly-cut collection of shortbread pieces arrayed on the baking sheet, and Evren hooks his little finger around the oven door to pull it open. Heat billows out in a hot dry wave. "There we are . . ."

Kerena sets the timer for ten minutes or so, then all but skips to what passes for a living room a few steps away and plops down on the floor, scrabbling into a cross legged stance. "You're more than welcome to the couch while we wait.”

Evren shrugs, rinses the floury dough residue off his hands, retrieves his gloves and sticks them through his belt, and joins her in the living room. He edges over to the couch but sits down in front of it, back against one of the armrests. "Thank you, but I'll forgo the high ground this once, I think." Not to mention the fact that she's _tiny_ ; he towers over her even without the furniture's help, and he's not _that_ tall. "So, ah, where did you learn how to cook? To my knowledge it's not part of the standard Jedi curriculum."

"Not typically part of a highborn Sith's skill set either, but you weren't exactly struggling," Kerena points out with a shrug. "But I, uh, had rather unorthodox training. My adoptive mother was a grumpy Gray Jedi woman who fled a Sith apprenticeship and a tenure as a Jedi Master. She'd had enough of both sides, so she went off on her own way, and ended up raising a bunch of orphans scattered about from the war." She breaks off in a laugh suddenly, stumbling upon a fond memory. "She was a terrible cook though, I had to learn from one of my sisters, Miri," Kerena snickers. "If Denarr had cooked for us, none of us would be around to tell the tale."

He clears his throat. "That—that sounds wonderful. The, er, the family, not the life-threatening terrible food. I—sorry. If that’s . . . never mind.”

Kerena smiles, "It's quite alright. And despite most of it being training, bouncing from warzone to warzone... It was wonderful. And I'm the youngest of them, so even if I hadn't joined the Order, I wouldn’t hear much from them—in some way or another, they're almost all involved with the Republic military, and almost always deployed. They're workaholics, the lot of them. I do end up staying with Vaieo fairly often though. It always gets too lively for me eventually, though, and I need to find someplace quiet, to rest and to work and to forget myself again. Exciting places, privateer's ships, but a bit too fast for me."

 _Breathe, and bury the ugly envy, and smile._ "Hence . . . all this?" Evren says, waving a hand to encompass the house, the town, the storm outside. "A good life, I think, blizzards notwithstanding." He hesitates, then says, "And, erm, on the subject of excitement, my own assignment shouldn't interfere with your work here. Unless the renegade Sith I'm searching for is masquerading as one of your people, which I doubt, because he's an elitist snob who'd die rather than lower himself to the level of mere refugees . . ."

"Hence all this," Kerena says with a nod. "I'll leave once the plant is up and running and able to support refugees, but being able to move on, that's nice in itself, too. It does get lonely out here, so I'm glad for any company I can get.” She smiles wryly. "Even if it's brought on by the hunt of a particularly nasty Sith Lord. I'm glad it'll be out of the way of the workers here, but still, if you need any assistance . . . Before I was called off to the diplomatic branch, I was in a more . . . discreet branch. I would neither be felt nor seen," she says, and promptly provides a demonstration, veiling herself in the Force.

"Hells," Evren blurts out, as she just goes blank, vanishes from mundane sight and Force senses alike. There's nothing. Nothing at all—not even a void. When he conceals himself he has to provide a distraction, a moment's inattention, otherwise he'll still be noticed. But Kerena . . . she's just—gone.

He waits for a few hair-raising seconds, then ventures, "Erm. Could you come back now? Kerena . . .?"

Kerena pops up again in the kitchen, peering through the oven door, checking the cookies. "Been doing that since I was a baby. Really the only way a toddler survives ground zero of the Sacking—well, that and sheer, miraculous dumb luck. Hmm, not quite done yet. Do you prefer them crisp or softer?"

Evren jumps. He didn't even hear her move. Stars, she's—that's—no. New rule: never ever under any circumstances enter a situation where Kerena Denarr might be an enemy combatant. Ever.

He finds his voice again. "Softer, if that's all right?" he squeaks.

Kerena adjusts the timer. "Just another minute, then they'll be soft and cooked through then," she says brightly. "So, your turn: where does a fancy Lord of the Sith learn to cook?"

It's only fair. "My parents would cook for each other, when there was time, and I'd help once I was old enough. They weren't Sith," he adds, because the question would still stand otherwise. "There wasn't much opportunity during training, but after Korriban, with my own ship . . . It's—good." It's the only thing he can do that no overseer or master has ever twisted. "And it's a spectacular time sink for those interminable hyperspace voyages. Shipboard rations are terrible."

Kerena pulls the cookies out of the oven, setting them on the counter to cool. She nods, smiling reassuringly, and pointedly avoids asking about parents or Korriban. From the sounds of it, they were nothing like Kara's—but she knew Sith, and she knew what happened on Korriban. Best to leave it. She then sticks out her tongue, gagging, "Ugh, of all the things to have in common between them, why do the Republic and Empire have to share the worst rations? Jedi are some of the blandest people you'll ever meet, and even they’ve heard of seasonings."

"Budgeting issues," Evren says with a sneer. "Apparently it's more important to pour credits into researching new and interesting ways to destroy planets than to provide the millions if not billions of military and military-affiliated personnel with something vaguely appealing to eat."

"After all, why bother feeding them properly if you're just sending them to die?" Kerena says bitterly. "Well, I for one am doubly grateful for these cookies, and I declare that the best way to be grateful is to be properly appreciative of them while they're hot," she proclaims, shoving at least three in her mouth at once.

He takes a cookie, bites into it, and nods solemnly. "Oh, I'm appreciating." Soft and buttery and a bit crumbly, just the right amount of sweetness. "I really ought to thank you for the Force-baking idea. Is that your usual method, or . . .?" And to be honest he wouldn't be surprised if it were her usual method—she made it look effortless, right up until the end.

"Though I could always use more practice, it's not as fun without an audience," she says ruefully, before shifting into her ultra serious Jedi voice: "I live to serve."

"Well, then. Demonstration and lesson much appreciated." He takes another bite. "Not quite as much as the cookies, but there's plenty of appreciation to go around."

"Happy to help,” Kerena says, pulling out her datapad. "Oh, the weather report's been updated, the storm's mostly passed now."

He glances out the window. The relentless snow has let up; only a few flurries remain airborne. "I should probably leave soon. The longer Lord Veraxos remains at large, the greater the chances he'll decide to make trouble for your people here."

"Would it be alright if I helped?" Kerena asks. "The sooner he's taken care of, the less trouble he'll cause. Just covering escape routes in case he tries something, even?" she suggests, leaping to her feet. But instead of grabbing her saber, she picks up a container from one of the cabinets. "Here, take some cookies with you, too, at least."

Evren accepts the container as she fills it with cookies, laughing under his breath. He sobers as the full implications of what she’s offering truly register. "Er—this isn't a capture mission. It's more of an assassination. If you're willing to help, I would appreciate it, but . . ." He trails off, uncertain.

"Ah," Kerena shrugs. "This may sound callous, but a threat is a threat. It's nice to be able to give people the benefit of the doubt when I can, but . . . If even the Empire wants one of their own gone, I can't imagine he's someone I’d bake cookies for. I've been in this fight since I was hardly more than a child; I'm no stranger to assassinations."

He nods. Ah, the joys of galactic war. "Whenever you're ready, then."


End file.
